Tune—"The bonny moorhen."
An old song.
Jenny Macraw was a bird o' the game,
An' mony a shot had been lows'd at her wame;
Be't a lang bearing arrow, or the sharp-rattlin' hail,
Still, whirr! she flew off wi' the shot in her tail.
Jenny Macraw to the mountains she's gane,
Their leagues and their covenants a' she has ta'en;
"My head now, and heart now," quo she, "are at rest,
An' for my poor c—t, let the deil do his best."
Jenny Macraw on a midsummer morn,
She cut off her c—t and she hung't on a thorn;
There she loot it hing for a year and a day,
But oh! how looked her a—e when her c—t was away?
NAE HAIR ON'T.
An old fragment.
Yestreen I wed a lady fair,
An ye wad believe me,
On her c—t there grows nae hair,
That's the thing that grieves me.
It vex'd me sair, it plagu'd me sair.
It put me in a passion,
To think that I had wed a wife,
Whose c—t was out o' fashion.